When someone young dies, we grieve over all that is lost: the potential that had yet to be realized, the future that had yet to be lived. We grieve over what could have been as much as we would grieve over what was.

But the Book of Wisdom reminds us that such is the view of the foolish: to assume that this life is better than the afterlife, that what could have been is greater than what will be. As a people of faith, we cannot see passing away as an affliction, going forth from us as utter destruction (Wis. 3:2). We believe that there is more to look forward to than what we have here, and our young William only got to it before any of us did.

Today Holy Mother Church in Her funeral liturgy assures us that, in spite of our fears and anxieties, all is not lost: our loved one can be found in the presence of the One who gives us everything that is good (cf. Eucharistic Prayer IV). It is true that we will never again get to watch William work with his hands; we will never again see him take a diesel motor apart and put it back together. But, we are assured that he now rests in the arms of the God on whose hands his name and ours are written (cf. Is. 49:16). We will never again get to see him search for that elusive bargain in the US-127 yard sale. But, we are assured that he has found his just reward at the end of this life’s road. We will never again get to watch him cheer for that longshot at the Keeneland track. Instead, we are assured that he has fought the good fight, he has finished the race, he has kept the faith (cf. 2 Tim. 4:7); we are assured that he is standing right there in the winner’s circle.

There is so much for us to grieve about when we think of all that is lost, all that William had lost, all that we have lost, now that he is gone. But there is also so much for us to rejoice about when we think of how much more he has gained. William is now beyond our worries: his soul is in the hand of God and no torment shall touch him again (cf. Wis. 3:1). We need not be anxious that, with his life’s lamp extinguished, he has been left in the dark roaming alone through the valley of the shadow of death (cf. Ps. 23:4). Instead, we must rejoice that he has at his side Christ the Good Shepherd leading him to the green pastures (cf. Ps. 23:2, 4) where the everlasting day has dawned, where that glorious Easter morning has broken.

It wasn’t because staying in the monastery was uncomfortable; the monks there were more than accommodating when I arrived. It wasn’t because I suddenly realized that this was a waste of my time; I knew deep down that I needed a break from the pandemonium of the parish and that I needed to spend that break letting myself be inspired by the Holy Spirit. I was ready to call it quits because the prospect of spending a whole week of prayer scared me.

It is quite embarrassing for a professional ‘pray-er’ like me to admit that I was scared by a week of prayer. After all, most of the prayers that I was going to do I already do every day: daily Mass and the Liturgy of the Hours. But while they interrupted my often hurried life in the parish, these invocations were going to set the pace for my week at the archabbey. That was what had scared me. It wasn’t because I had no time to pray; it was because all I had to do was pray!

I realized then how addicted to adrenalin I have become, how much of my life has turned into this series of activities and appointments. I was offered the opportunity to contemplate the Divine; instead, I yearned for my daily distractions. I had this chance to devote a week with God, the ‘ultimate Thou;’ instead, I kept remembering that I had left remnants of my ‘I’ life behind: my iPod, my iPad, my iPhone. I finally got to step on the brakes of my rushed existence, yet I found myself counting down the minutes before I got moving again.

I suppose that this is the curse of our postmodern civilization. There is so much out there that makes life so easy and convenient that I would shudder at the faintest possibility of hardship and hassle. There is so much noise to fill in the pauses that I would find the sudden silence deafening. There is so much fuel available to pick up the pace that I would fear anything that was going to slow me down.

That was why four hours into my retreat I was ready to call it quits and head back home. But, I resisted that temptation and I stayed, because I knew that I needed that withdrawal from the world to get me through my withdrawal from its worries. I knew that adrenalin could only get me so far, but the Spirit could take me all the way. I knew that I owed it to God to not only make time for prayer but to make every time a time for prayer.

It wasn’t easy those first four hours, but eventually I got into the gentle pace of prayer. I guess that the slowed stride was God’s way of calming me down, reassuring me that His decisions are neither hasty nor hurried, that my destiny has been set by Him with a sure and steady hand. Unfortunately, I was never ready to hear such assurances when I was rushing towards all directions. It was only when I retreated to be with Him in prayer that I was able to receive His consolations loud and clear.

By the age of 29, Elizabeth Ann Seton was a widow with five children. She had lost a husband and a fortune, and her curiosity about the Catholic Church was costing her her place in the New York high society into which she had been born and bred. She tried to remain an earnest Episcopalian but something—or Someone—greater was drawing her away from the faith of her childhood, her family, and her friends.

One Sunday, she attended St. Paul’s Chapel on Broadway where, she later wrote, “I got in a side pew which turned my face towards the Catholic Church in the next street, and found myself twenty times speaking to the Blessed Sacrament there, instead of looking at the naked altar where I was” (cf. Mrs. Seton: Foundress of the American Sisters of Charity by Joseph I. Dirvin, CM, p. 154). She had gone to seek her soul’s consolation in that chapel but found that the Real Presence she was looking for was someplace else.

Elizabeth Ann Seton realized that she was no longer content with bare sanctuaries and empty promises. She craved for the lavish meal of the Eucharist and the fullness of the Truth. She could no longer deny the hunger within her that cried for Christ and on March 14, 1805 she was received into the Catholic Church. She knew that her conversion would cut her off from her worldly connections and it did. Yet, it also cemented her celestial connection: at her first Holy Communion, she exclaimed with conviction, “at last, God is mine and I am His!” (Dirvin, p. 168).

Throughout the millennia, many others like Mother Seton have found themselves looking for something more, yearning for Someone Great. By God’s grace, somebody always pointed them to the right direction. John the Baptist did so with two of his disciples when he said of Jesus, “Behold, the Lamb of God” (Jn. 1:36). Our parish patron Andrew brought his brother Simon Peter to meet the promised Messiah (Jn. 1:41-42). It was the Filicchi family who first invited Mother Seton to come to Mass. So many more out there are looking for what and whom we have here. We too need to extend to them the invitation that Christ gave to His first disciples: “Come, and you will see” (Jn. 1:39).

Tonight is fulfilled the ancient prophecy of Isaiah: “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; upon those who dwelt in the land of gloom a light has shone” (Is. 9:1). Tonight the one Morning Star who never sets (cf. Exsultet) pierces that dark sky, beckoning those from afar to come and find Him who is our Creator cradled in the arms of His creation. The lamb and all the other creatures in the cave of Bethlehem invite us to see what they see: the One who is greater than all the constellations in the sky sleeping in their lowly manger (cf. Lk. 2:12).

Before this night, the face of God could not be seen; the Lord dwelt in unapproachable light (cf. 1 Tim. 6:16). But tonight, the dark days are over: we now can see God’s countenance in this Christ-Child; we now can reach out for His hand and hold Him. Here in this Church is Bethlehem, which in Hebrew means “house of bread,” and there at that tabernacle is the crib where the Body of Christ rests.

Said the little lamb to the shepherd boy,
“Do you hear what I hear
ringing through the sky, shepherd boy?
Do you hear what I hear?
A song, a song
high above the tree
with a voice as big as the sea,
with a voice as big as the sea.”

Tonight is sung the new song called for by the psalmist of old: “Sing to the Lord a new song,” David said, “for He has done wondrous deeds” (Ps. 98:1). Yet, this new song came not from the mouth of men; it was heard from the choir of cherubim caroling to the shepherds of Judea (cf. Lk. 2:8-14). Those shepherds invite us to hear what they hear: the good news of great joy that “today in the city of David a Savior has been born for us who is Christ and Lord” (Lk. 2:11).

Before this night, a single angel would come to deliver God’s news and we in silence would listen. But tonight, we mere mortals dare to join that immortal chorus in singing with a singular voice a new song to the Lord: “Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace to those on whom His favor rests” (Lk. 2:14).

Said the shepherd boy to the mighty king,
“Do you know what I know
in your palace wall, mighty king?
Do you know what I know?
A Child, a Child
shivers in the cold.
Let us bring him silver and gold.
Let us bring him silver and gold.”

Tonight is fulfilled the primordial promise of God: “a Child is born to us, a Son is given us; upon His shoulder dominion rests” (Is. 9:5). The shepherds had come to give the Christ-Child homage (cf. Lk. 2:15-20); strangers from the East traveled to offer Him gifts (cf. Mt. 2:1-2, 11). But Herod the king hesitated to bring Him silver and gold. He assumed that the Child shivering in the cold was a threat to His throne (cf. Mt. 2:3). He did not know what the wise men knew: that this Child had come not to claim our earthly spoils but to offer us the heavenly inheritance (cf. Ti: 3:7).

On this night “the true light which enlightens everyone…came to what was His own but His own people did not accept Him. But to those who did accept Him He gave power to become children of God” (Jn. 1:9, 11-12).

Said the king to the people everywhere,
“Listen to what I say:
Pray for peace, people everywhere.
Listen to what I say:
The Child, the Child
sleeping in the night,
He will bring us goodness and light.
He will bring us goodness and light.”

Tonight we heed the ancient call of Isaiah the prophet: “For Zion’s sake I will not be silent, for Jerusalem’s sake I will not be quiet” (Is. 62:1). The king in this carol fulfills this call to share the Good News of Christmas to people everywhere. We too cannot be silent about Christmas as though it were a secret; we cannot be quiet about it when it heralds our salvation. We have to say with the night wind, “Do you see what I see?” “The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it” (Jn. 1:5). We have to say with the little lamb, “Do you hear what I hear?” With one voice, Heaven and earth, angels and men are singing “Glory to God in the highest.” We have to say with the shepherd boy, “Do you know what I know?” Our God, our God is present here and now! Give your hearts to Him and bow. Give your hearts to Him and bow.

Sometime before the clock strikes twelve, the whole family walks to the parish church for Mass. The men bring benches along; the children carry their stools. Experience has taught them that on this night every pew is filled and every space in the nave is occupied. Only those who had come very early will get to enter the church; the rest will have to sit and kneel at the parking lot, following the flow of the midnight Mass over the loudspeakers. 

The midnight Mass but heralds the beginning of the celebration of Christmas in the Philippines. None dares to go to sleep just yet, for an old proverb from the Spanish regime reminds everyone: “Esta noche es noche buena y no es noche para dormir.” This night is the good night, proclaims the proverb, it is not a night for slumber. It is the night to keep watch with the shepherds of Bethlehem for the song of the angels from on high (cf. Lk. 2:8-14). It is the night to rejoice “for unto us a child is born, unto us [the] Son [of God] is given” (Is. 9:6). It is not a night for slumber.

It is the night of Christmas when all through the house all would still be up, from the patriarch to the smallest child. They would have gathered after the feast of the Mass (pista ng Misa) to partake of the feast of the dinner table (pista ng mesa). There the family has plenty of food to share: queso de bola (a ball of edam cheese) and pan de sal (bread of salt), jamón (ham) and suman (rice cake), nilagang baka (beef stew) and lumpia (egg rolls). Most of the relatives will come to visit in the morning, but the closest cousins will venture through the lantern-lit streets to give their early Christmas greetings and to get the first plate of what would turn out to be a five course Christmas breakfast.

It is the one night when nobody seems to be bothered about how late it is or that everybody is losing sleep. This night is so good, its joy is so great, that people simply could not and would not wait until the morning to celebrate.

That is why the homes in the Philippines are never dull and dark on Christmas eve. How could they be when it is noche buena, when it is the night that proved to be for the whole world so very good?

Let’s face it: there are still many among us who are left pondering during Mass what sort of response they are expected to make. After all, it has only been four weeks since the Catholic Church in the United States began using the revised translation of the Roman Missal. It will take a little while longer before any of its new words are committed to memory. In the meantime, I think it is good that, instead of just giving a routine response, we are finally thinking before we start talking, something some of us haven’t tried to do in conversing with God.

What we have here is an opportunity to let our prayer be more intentional, a chance to let our praise be more intense. We can no longer rely on the force of habit to determine what we say at Mass. We now have to mind what we say and to mean what we pray.

This new Roman Missal invites all of us, the priests of God and the people of God, to rediscover what we have taken for granted, to reclaim a reverence that once was there, to revive the fervor for the Faith that has grown cold. The Holy Mass itself has not changed; only some of our words have. And these changes are not meant to confuse but to enlighten: to allow us to see this feast of Heaven and earth in a new light, to find that there is always so much more here than meets the earthly eye and tongue.

Perhaps, it is this “so much more” that the elevated English of the new translation is trying to convey. Some have complained that this rendering is too poetic for those in the pews, that it is too literary for the common layperson. However, I would insist that such an objection comes not from a love for the prosaic but from a misunderstanding of the poetic. If they really knew what poetry is, they too would prefer to employ more poetry in their prayer.

My favorite distinction between prose and poetry comes from a remark made by Samuel Taylor Coleridge in 1827. It was a line that I frequently cited when I was teaching language and literature to college students at the University of the Assumption. “Prose,” Coleridge explained, “is words in their best order. Poetry is the best words in their best order.”

Poetry, then, is “so much more” than prose. And it is but fitting that we give what is “so much more” to the One who has given us more than we can ever grasp. We cannot be content with giving God what is good enough when we can offer Him what is best. We cannot settle for plain and thought-less prayer when we can present profound and thoughtful praise. It is only “right and just, our duty and our salvation” to use the best words in their best order that we have available in glorifying the Word who made our flesh, the same Word who, for our sake, was made flesh (cf. Jn. 1:14).

In my native Pampanga, a Ligligan Parul (literally, a lantern showdown) is held every December. Known to tourists as the Giant Lantern Festival, the contest features gargantuan parols spanning a breadth of 40 feet and lit by generators powerful enough to light an entire barrio. Gone is the singular candle of old; in its place are a thousand bulbs, timed to beam and dim in a rhythm that gives each stellar lantern a luminescence that can best be described as kaleidoscopic.

In many ways, the sparkle of these man-made stars reminds us during this season of Advent that “the true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world” (Jn. 1:9). However dark these December nights might be, light has not faded from the earth; rather, it blazes with the feat and flourish of these giant lanterns, recalling the words of the evangelist John: “The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it” (Jn. 1:5).

In olden days, the smaller lanterns also lit the path of those headed to the parish church for the misa de gallo (literally, the rooster’s Mass), the Mass celebrated after the first cock crow. The faithful would flock to Mass every morning on the nine days before Christmas and each parol, like that fabled star of Bethlehem, led them to the place where they could worship the Christ-child.

Now that street lamps line the path to the Church, the lanterns no longer serve their initial practical purpose. And yet, a Filipino home, however decked with Christmas lights it might be, would still appear naked in the night without a parol gleaming from its window. I suppose that for us the parol has become this radiant reminder of what every Christian home is called to be on Christmas and every day of the year: a shining beacon in this shadowed world, radiating such light and warmth that it invites all those passing by to find at its heart the Christ-child dwelling within.

Unfortunately, the human race does not have a good track record when it comes to hospitality to the Most High. When the Christ-child “came unto His own…His own received Him not” (Jn. 1:11). There was no room for Him in any inn in Bethlehem (cf. Lk. 2:7); there was no great reception for Him who is the world’s Redeemer. He was the long-expected One, yet only a few noticed that He had come: those who were attentive to the things of Heaven (the Magi) and those who were down to earth (the shepherds). There were even those who did not want Him around, who were ready to kill just to get Him out of their way (cf. Mt. 2:3, 16). But, the rest did not detect the Divine coming to dwell in their midst, so consumed were they with their cares that they cared not to watch or wait for the window of salvation to open.

Nothing much has changed in two thousand years. There are still those who want to take Christ out of sight, out of mind, and out of Christmas. And, the rest are still very consumed by the costs of this holiday that they fail to realize that it is costing them a share of eternity. They have become so obsessed with gifts for the season that they have forgotten the Gift of the season. Their Friday after Thanksgiving is not bright but black, because, for them, this is the time of the year when, as the comic Stephen Colbert points out,  they are “spending money [they] don’t have on things [they] don’t need to give to people [they] don’t like.”

But, for us Catholics, there is more to this season than just sales and presents and decorations. Advent for us is a window of opportunity to practice our welcome for Christ. Our God of second chances has given us this time to be ready to receive Him whom we failed to receive once before. And the only way we can prepare to welcome Him when He comes again is to welcome with the same warmth all those whom He has sent to go ahead of Him: every guest, pilgrim, and poor person who knocks on our door. Christ once came in the unexpected guise of a helpless child; He comes to us still in the guise of those who approach us for help. Each of them is a herald prompting us to make room in our hearts and in our hearths for, as the Advent carol  reminds us, “Love, the Guest, in on the way” (cf. “People, Look East!”  by Eleanor Farjeon).

We hear that a lot from folks in the South, especially after an innovative idea is presented. It is their preferred ammunition in many an argument, the card in their deck that trumps any case for change.

At the heart of what these folks endorse as ‘common sense’ are two assumptions: first, that something is not broken; and second, that change would not do any good. Something might look ‘all put together’ on the outside, but inside it could be ‘all broken up.’ We can never be sure until we have examined it closely, until we have checked it completely. It is true that sometimes change can do more harm than good; but, just because something is proven to be good doesn’t mean that anything else that is unproven cannot be better.

Such common sense might work well in the South, but, it cannot take the place of conscience in a Christian. At the heart of what we believers call conscience are two truths: first, that all humanity is broken; and second, that change would do us a whole lot of good.

We might look ‘all put together’ but the pieces of our lives are hardly intact. Only a fool would believe that he is untouched by evil, that he is unburdened by the weight of the world. There is a brokenness in our humanity that needs to be mended. We realize this to be true when we examine our conscience, when we identify those parts of our selves that are disconnected from grace. No less than St. Paul acknowledged this when he said, “I do not do the good I want, but I do the evil I do not want” (Rm. 7:19).

None of us want this woundedness to be left unhealed. None of us has the desire for this brokenness to remain unmended. But, the only condition by which this cheerless condition can be changed is to let ourselves be changed. Blessed John Henry Newman tells us that “in a higher world it is otherwise, but here below to live is to change, and to be perfect is to have changed often” (cf. An Essay on the Development of Christian Doctrine, ch. 1, sec. 1, part 7). But, this is not change for the sake of change; this is change for the sake of Christ.

For us Christians, change is not just about having an altered life; it is about having an ‘altar-ed’ life. Our goal is not to move away from God’s altar, but to draw closer to it. It is there that we find the Lamb of God who is “broken but not divided, ever eaten but never consumed, [who] sanctifies those who partake of Him” (cf. “Fraction of the Holy Bread” in The Divine Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom). It is by His brokenness that we are mended; it is by His wounds that we are healed (cf. 2 Pt. 2:24).

“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” Then again, we are ‘broke’ and only Christ can get us mended. But, first, we ourselves have got to change.